Carrera Maaka: GRRR! Are there any vampires lurking around here? If I find an evil vampire, BANG! I'll shoot them in the heart with a silver bullet! Then CHOP! Cut the corpse's head off with an axe! Then TWIST-TWIST! I'll yank their teeth out with pliers, and then I'll...!

Viggo Tarasov: He once was an associate of ours. They call him "Baba Yaga." Iosef Tarasov: The Boogeyman? Viggo: Well, John wasn't exactly the Boogeyman. He was the one you sent to kill the fucking Boogeyman. Iosef: Oh.

And until this moment Thibor had not really known fear, but now he did. Thibor the Wallach  warlord of however small and ragged an army, humourless, merciless killer of the Pechenegi  utterly fearless Thibor, until now. Until now he'd not met a creature he feared. In the hunt, wild boar in the forests, which had wounded men so badly as to kill them, were 'piglets' to him. In the challenge: let any man only dare hurl down the gauntlet, Thibor would fight him any way he chose. All knew it, and none chose! And in battle: he led from the front, stood at the head of the charge, could only ever be found in the thick of the fighting. Fear? It was a word without meaning. Fear of what? When he had ridden out to battle, he'd known each day might be his last. That had not deterred him. So black was his hatred of the invaders, of all enemies, that it simply engulfed fear and put it down. No creature, or man, or threat of any device of men had ever unmanned him since ... oh, before he could remember: since he was a child, if ever he'd been one. But Faethor Ferenczy was something other than all of these. Torture could only maim and must kill in the end, and there's no pain after death, but what the Ferenczy threatened seemed an eternity of hell.

Never had the aberration seen such demonic eyes. He'd never really believed it was possible to stare into someone's soul, but with the way Gohvis was looking at him, he was beginning to have doubts. In fact, he was starting to think it might be possible to look at someone to death.

Castiel: Don't worry about the Winchesters. Crowley, The King of Hell: Don't worry about... what, like Lucifer didn't worry? Or Michael, or Lilith, or Alistair, or Azazel didn't worry? Am I the only game piece on the board who doesn't underestimate those denim-wrapped nightmares?

Reject, are you no one? Feel you nothing? You know, I'll bet you think You have a good reason to be living In the limelight of the fortunate ones You're too weakened by the poison That they feed you in the living lie They don't believe you Call to no one Trust in nothing Little impotent one

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Even other vampires grow uneasy around these eerie Kindred, and the clan's nickname of "Fiends" was given to it in nights past by horrified Kindred of other lines. The Tzimisce's signature Discipline of Vicissitude is the subject of particular dread; tales speak of crippling disfigurements inflicted on a whim, of ghastly "experiments" and tortures refined beyond human - or vampire - comprehension and endurance.

You don't want to look him in the eye, Bolgut, trust me on that. I saw 'im at the Battle of Blood Rock, and it weren't pretty. Skrag was all whirlin' cleavers, surrounded by a red mist. Chunks of flesh and bone were flying everywhere. 'Ee went through the Elves like a Sabretusk through a bag of Gnoblars. Spears was breakin' on his skin like 'ee was made of rocks. All the while those Elves was screaming and 'ee was choppin' em up and chuckin' the bits of their bodies into 'is pot.

That was when the Gorgers arrived, dozens of 'em. Sniffin' and gruntin' as they followed 'is scent. Then the real slaughter started...

In the first age, in the first battle, when the shadows first lengthened, one stood. Burned by the embers of Armageddon, his soul blistered by the fires of Hell and tainted beyond ascension, he chose the path of perpetual torment. In his ravenous hatred he found no peace; and with boiling blood he scoured the Umbral Plains seeking vengeance against the dark lords who had wronged him. He wore the crown of the Night Sentinels, and those that tasted the bite of his sword named him... the Doom Slayer.

We sense... something... something ancient... a sickly smell... a chilling wind. My ancestors scream from within their chambers in my mind... but I cannot understand their words. This feeling... a memory? It sickens us, and for the first time in our lives... for the first time in generations... we fear.

When the Alpha Legion found themselves standing above the cold necropolis that had emerged from the Imosan sands, they saw not just a foe, but the one thing which - in their mad power and zeal - they feared and abhorred: subservience, silence, the void.

Yes, ParodyJaneway is crazy, but there was always a method to her madness, while Regular Janeway feels madness by itself is just fine, thank you very much. She has stared into the abyss as it has stared into her... and the abyss said, "JESUS!"

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